My One and Only Firefight

February 12 almost got by me without remembering my first and only “firefight” in Vietnam. I had thought about it and the events leading to it in the previous days but on the day itself, I was aware only that the world was marking the 197th anniversary of Charles Darwin’s birth and Abraham Lincoln’s 198th. Later in the day, the “firefight” came to mind. I use the term firefight advisedly since there wasn’t much to it. Nonetheless, it sticks in my mind.

My company walked out from Firebase Fontaine around mid-day. We were all kind of pissed about that. After all, we were Air Cavalry and should have been flying out on our mission, not walking. (This was about the same time as Operation Lam Son 719, where US-backed South Vietnamese troops invaded Laos, probably the reason for our lack of air transport). After a few hours walking, we stopped because our medic was sick. He was off to the side vomiting. The rest of us were sitting in a long line alternately facing in either direction when Georgia yelled, “Gooks!” and began firing.

I swung around to face the direction of fire. I vaguely remember getting hung up on some brush and having to think my way out of it while the world around me exploded. Once in position, I switched my M16 to semi-automatic and began squeezing the trigger, taking careful aim and picking my shots, just as I had been trained to do. Then I realized that I had no target, at which point I switched to full automatic and cut loose with everything I had, changing magazines as rapidly as I could. The rest of my squad was blazing away beside me.

An infantry squad in full fire is an unforgettable experience. The noise is deafening, with the crackle of rifles and the heavy thud of the M60 machine gun. The landscape changes immediately; small brush is swept away by the initial fire, as if our purpose was to clear the area. As the firing continues, small trees begin to fall, bullets shattering their trunks. When the firing ended after about 30 to 45 seconds, the air was thick with the acrid smell of cordite. A small patrol went out to look for the targets of our fury as the rest of us regrouped. The patrol returned with a report of blood trails but no bodies. Whoever it was, they got away. They were two Vietnamese carrying packs, probably Viet Cong or North Vietnamese. Targets in a free-fire zone.

As I said, there wasn’t much to this engagement. We took return fire but it was minimal. Nonetheless, I was pumped, my heart racing and scared shitless. I had been in the field for a month by this time and had no contact and hoped it would stay that way although I had no reason to believe I could make it through a year in the infantry in Vietnam without contact. As it turned out, that is exactly what happened but this early in my tour I would never have expected that.

This minimal firefight had some serious antecedents. About a week earlier my company was patrolling in the mountains when we heard an explosion. Word came down that Bravo Company hit the shit and we would be heading to their relief. Then not. Then no one was sure. So we waited, listening to the aerial assault taking place on the next ridge while our commanders figured out what to do. We were close but not close enough to reach Bravo on foot fast enough. The jungle canopy was too thick to bring in choppers to ferry us. I lay on the ground, waiting, figuring that I was about to see my first action.

But the order never came. The commanders decided to airlift Delta Company from the firebase, to relieve Bravo. We would replace Delta on the base. Sweet. Not only did I dodge a possibly ugly experience but I got to return to the (relative) comfort of the firebase after only a week in the field rather than the normal three week rotation. Great for me. Not so great for Delta Company, whose stay was cut short. Even less great for Bravo Company which lost six men killed when a lieutenant led his platoon into a bunker complex. Probably not so great for the Vietnamese, since they came in for murderous rocket and cannon fire from American aircraft.

At the time I wasn’t aware of it, but this event would be my most intense combat experience. Not much to speak of. Which is just fine with me. Combat is generally described as long periods of boredom punctuated with short bursts of sheer terror. I can’t speak for terror (at least beyond this one brief experience) but I got the boredom down pretty well. My experience is that boredom is not quite the right term either; it’s more of an apprehension, an expectation of impending danger, walking on the edge. It’s not as deadly as actual contact but it's not something I can forget.